


Anyone Else

by beccastanz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Ben Solo, Bisexual Rey (Star Wars), Bisexuality, Bratty Rey (Star Wars), Breathplay, Crying During Sex, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Dom/sub, Dominant Ben Solo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, Emotionally Repressed, Evil Snoke (Star Wars), Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Contact, F/M, Flirting, Hate Sex, Kissing, Lawyer Ben Solo, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missionary, Morning Sex, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, No Pregnancy, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Soft Dom Ben, Spin the Bottle, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), Vaginal Fingering, condom use, eating out from behind, eating out standing up, in the form of unrequited flirting, its mild and done safely, obtained for sexy times, one mention of snoke’s firm defending rapists, safe sex, service dom ben, snoke is not nice, they defend bad people, this is messy, three finger fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz
Summary: Ben (2:35AM): What do you want, Rey?—In which Ben works for Snoke, and Rey refuses to fuck him.
Relationships: Kaydel Ko Connix/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 331
Kudos: 1002
Collections: Queerly Beloved Reylo Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit different from my usual fare. One shot turned two shot, angsty, and mind the tags. Hoping to get chapter 2 up sometime this weekend, but no promises considering the *vaguely gestures at everything*

_“This is Ben,”_ Poe said.

_“He’s an old family friend,”_ Poe said.

_“Be nice,”_ Poe said.

He is at every party, every bar hop, every Friendsgiving and wedding and funeral her little friend group has ever seen.

And she hates him.

He doesn’t fit in. He knows it, and yet there he is, every time, in a room full of engineers and mechanics and teachers in his three thousand dollar suits and perfectly polished wingtips, sipping from a glass of scotch twice his age.

He always brings a bottle large enough to share, the bastard.

_“He doesn’t have anyone else,”_ Poe said.

And that cut the deepest.

Because she remembers having no one.

Her friends have big hearts, hearts that welcomed her when she was alone. Hearts that let someone into their circle with an assuredly empty chest cavity.

Soulless. Spineless. Heartless. 

Beautiful. 

She can’t shake it, the allure of him.

It’s an inconvenience to her hatred.

His striking features captured her interest at their first meeting. Poe was so excited that _“Ben’s finally free for once”_ and he pulled her over to meet him and she looked up and up and _up_ until she met the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen. And then, in true Rey fashion, she opened her mouth.

“You’re dressed a little fancy for a Poe party, no?”

And then he smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled, and she wanted him in her bed that night.

“You’re not wrong.”

_He can take a joke, good._

“I came straight from work. I’m a lawyer.”

She thought she saw a hint of a grimace as he finished his sentence.

She giggled in a practiced way, and shot back, “Well, as long as you don’t work for one of those horrid fucks like Snoke.” 

And that was the night she discovered the feeling of all the air leaving a room.

She practically felt Poe’s dread and looked to him for an explanation.

And then she looked back at Ben, face pinched, large sip of his drink moving down his throat.

“Well. This is awkward,” he’d said.

And that’s how she found out that Ben was a piece of shit.

A piece of shit she was hopelessly, desperately attracted to.

It’s funny, though. Poe made such a big deal about Ben’s attendance at that first party, yet he hasn’t missed a single one since.

He’s always late, of course. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two or three, but he always makes an appearance.

She tells herself she’s not waiting for him when she decides to stay despite the inevitability of an early morning. Sometimes she dozes on the couch, only to wake up to the feeling of Ben sitting down beside her, soft voice in her ear.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

In the moment before she opens her eyes, she can pretend to allow herself his words. It’s a precious thing, and then she rips it to shreds out of necessity.

“Fuck off, Ben.”

It’s a routine now, their verbal sparring matches. She leans into her anger, trades barbs until the room tells them to quit, or until one of them leaves, and then she goes home and shoves her vibrator into her cunt without preamble, rough and fast, because she thinks that’s how he would fuck her, too.

————

They’re at a sleazy club for someone’s birthday, and she wears the tightest, shortest dress in her closet and Ben shows up an hour late in his suit and doesn’t even bother to try and hide his appreciation of her outfit as he saunters over.

Her friends are on the dance floor, and she’s nursing a drink at the bar and wondering why not a single person in this club holds a candle to her forbidden fantasy.

He waves down the bartender, and it’s like being a douche constitutes a drink order because it feels like ten seconds have passed between when he materializes next to her and when he starts palming a glass of scotch.

“Rey.”

Just the way he says her name is heated.

“Ben,” she bites, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”

She sucks in a breath, and it’s not enough, so she throws back a shot, too.

“Let me fuck you.”

She wants him to.

“No.”

“Let me eat you out.”

Jesus _fuck_ she wants him to.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’d shut up if I was eating you out.”

She’s leaning on the bar for balance and telling herself the flush on her cheeks is from the liquor and that she can’t want him, she doesn’t want him, doesn’t want to give a man the time of day when his days are spent getting immoral, horrid, disgustingly rich men off. She has to shake her head to get rid of the images her mind conjures up in her drunken state.

“How logical,” she hisses through her teeth.

He chuckles, and she finally looks at him straight on, takes in the look on his face, the rumpled collar of his shirt, single button undone, tie loose. She wonders how it would feel to have that tie around her wrists, her eyes, her neck as he yanks her back on his cock—

“Can I at least have a dance?”

Something akin to desperation passes across his features. She tells herself it’s a trick of the light, flashing bulbs and liquor clouding her judgment, because in no world has she ever seen Ben Solo desperate.

“No.” She forces herself to say it, even though it burns her tongue more than the shot she took. She forces herself to make her way to the dance floor. She forces herself to find a partner, then another, and another, all the while sneaking glances at the bar where he sits, waiting, sipping at his drink, always watching, unashamed.

They both go home alone.

————

She goes on dates, friends of Poe and Finn and Rose thrown at her indiscriminately, Tinder matches, pretty people that she tries to like, tries to laugh with and talk with and picture a future with and not a single one lasts more than a few nights out. None go past a heated make out or two, or hands hastily shoved beneath shirts and underwear, the occasional lackluster orgasm with her mind far away. They never get naked, and no one fucks or gets fucked, and she curses herself for comparing every single one of them to him.

They’re too _nice,_ and she hates herself for thinking it, and hates herself for craving something worse.

So there she is, at another party at Poe’s, except now it’s Poe and Finn’s, because now they live together, because the lives of her friends progress and she’s hung up on a man she loathes.

They’re in a circle in the living room and this time the couch is full when Ben walks in late, so he doesn’t sit next to her. She tells herself the swoop in her gut is absolutely not disappointment.

She’s halfway to drunk and most of the room is right there with her, and then Poe is shouting.

“We should play spin the bottle!” His words are a bit slurred and he’s leaned on his fiancé for balance and the room erupts with excitement except for her and Ben. She knows this because for some reason this suggestion compels her to look at him, and when she does, he is already looking at her, the same stare from the club, the same stare he affixes her with at every turn, like somehow his eyes will make her forget that he spends his days searching for loopholes in the law and arguing on behalf of the lowest of the low.

It’s then that she realizes she’s memorized his face enough to watch it change, has heard him speak enough that she notices the patterns alter.

The bags under his eyes have been getting darker.

His sarcastic quips have an unfamiliar tinge at the edges, subtle humor washed away by the acrid taste of bitterness.

She tries not to notice these things. As a rule, she tries not to notice him.

But he feels inevitable. She can’t look away.

Rose’s voice pierces their carefully curated connection.

“Poe, most of us are pushing thirty. Some pushed past it a while ago.” She is sitting next to Ben and gives him a good natured shoulder check and it knocks them both out of their reverie.

“I know!” Poe shouts. “It’s like a reclamation of youth!”

And then there’s an empty wine bottle on the coffee table, spinning.

Poe kisses Rose with an affectionate smack of lips, and everyone giggles, and Rose’s spin lands on her girlfriend Kay and their kiss lasts quite a bit longer, and the room cheers, and Kay gives Snap a kiss on the cheek, and Snap blows Finn a kiss from across the room, and then Finn’s spin lands on Ben.

Poe wags his eyebrows and mutters a drunken, “This I gotta see!”

Rey watches Finn amble across the room, grin wide, and then she looks to Ben, who is watching Finn’s approach with a matching grin of his own. Something lances through her, watching him smile for a reason other than her. Then she recognizes the ridiculousness of being jealous of something she doesn’t want and takes another gulp of her drink.

She doesn’t look away, though. She watches Finn bend down to level his eyes with Ben, seated in a cozy looking armchair. Finn crooks an eyebrow, and Ben reaches up to place a hand at the base of Finn’s neck, and then Finn pushes forward to land a very loud, wet kiss on Ben’s lips.

She watches Ben laugh into it before pressing deeper like it’s a game of chicken, and then Finn laughs too, and the noise echoes through the hoots and hollers of the rest of the room, and then they break apart and Finn lands a clap on Ben’s shoulder, as if to thank him for being a good sport, and her eyes are locked on Ben’s lips now, shiny with spit and even plumper than usual. Nothing could possibly tear her gaze away.

Nothing, that is, except for Ben’s hand spinning the bottle and it pointing at her.

The room goes silent. No one is a stranger to their feud, and she’s surprised no one considered this inevitability, and she can’t look at him anymore, because she can’t know what his reaction is to this twist of fate. And then she hears Poe’s voice. 

“Well, we’ve played for a while, we could switch to something—”

“No.”

_Oh._ That was her. She said that, the utterance ripped from her of its own accord, as if her mouth could not stand the thought of not getting to feel his. She has an excuse now, an easy one, one no one could fault her for leaning into. Surely, she does not want to ruin the momentum of the game.

“It’s fine,” she continues, and it feels like she’s lost control. It’s freeing.

And then she looks up because now she needs to know Ben’s reaction, but it’s hard to discern when he is already standing up, stalking toward the couch with a single-minded determination that almost scares her.

No. That’s not fear in her gut. It’s much warmer.

And then his hand is on her neck, fingers threading through the strands of hair that escaped her buns. His pinky brushes the top of her spine, and she wonders if he can feel her shudder. He tilts her head up as he lowers, slowly, teasing, until their lips are scant millimeters apart. 

He freezes. Waits. She realizes he is making her choose to close the gap. She wonders if it’s arrogance or kindness.

She surges to meet him.

It’s like something snaps when their lips touch; his grip on her neck tightens, and he forces her head to the side so he can part her lips with his tongue. A dam breaks, months of animosity and want poured into the kiss, heated bites, lips and tongues clashing. When he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, she hears herself let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and then Jannah clears her throat next to her on the couch, and she remembers where they are.

She pulls away, grabs his wrist to remove his hand from her neck, all but throwing it back against his body. He almost stumbles as he straightens, and she can’t meet his eyes before he wanders back to his chair. 

She’s panting, her chest heaving, and she tries to reign herself in before she embarrasses herself further.

Faintly, she registers the suggestion from someone to pick a different game, and eventually the bottle is removed and conversation resumes, but she feels worlds away.

Her lips tingle with wrongdoing, like she’s swiped Pop Rocks across the tender flesh. They fizz and sting and it shouldn’t feel good. It _doesn’t_ feel good.

It doesn’t feel good because now she’s gotten a taste of what she’s denied herself. He kissed her like he never wanted to know a world without the taste of her lips, so thorough and wanting that she’s resisting the urge to shift in her seat, to press her legs together in a chase of pressure.

She looks at him again, because she is weak.

The dark circles still protrude, and the bitterness is back in his eyes, combating against dark, penetrative desire aimed directly at her. 

He is, as always, undeterred, but at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

She goes home, head still spinning from the booze and the taste of him, just enough to do something reckless.

Rey (2:32AM): Ben?

She watches gray dots pop up on the screen as she reaches for her nightstand drawer, gripping her largest dildo and pulling her panties to the side. She thinks he might be too impatient to take them off.

The dots stop.

She dips it into her entrance, hissing at the self-imposed stretch.

The dots resume.

She pushes in another inch.

The dots stop.

She can’t hold back anymore, and buries the toy to the hilt.

And then—

Ben (2:35AM): What do you want, Rey?

Not what she expected, and not what she needs, and she certainly has no idea what she wants. She can’t say _quit your job so I can fuck you guilt free,_ so what else is there?

Rey (2:36AM): Never mind.

She fucks herself on the dildo and remembers his mouth against hers, and wonders how it might feel sucking at her clit.

————

She’s on another date, Tinder this time. They’re at a bar, because where else does one go on a Tinder date? She wears a strapless dress and her favorite (only) lipgloss and tells herself that tonight will be the night she gets laid.

Bazine suggested the location, and she tries to ignore the fact that they’re in Ben’s neighborhood, blocks from his office. She tries to ignore it because she’s trying to ignore him, trying to come up with a way to not let this gorgeous, smart, sarcastic, infuriating man take up all of her mental real estate. She deserves to be happy, and Ben seems to have no trouble working for a monster, and apparently her friends feel bad enough for him that they are willing to give him a pass. 

But she won’t.

People make choices, and if we don’t judge them for those choices, what’s left?

So she judges him as she pines, swirling complexities shoved away in favor of attempting connection with someone, anyone else.

She and Bazine sit at the bar, swapping occupations and hobbies, sipping overpriced cocktails, and then the universe decides to force her hand.

Ben walks in.

She chokes when she sees the door open, and Bazine asks if she’s okay, and she says _of course_ because what else can she say? 

She manages to keep up the small talk for about ten more minutes, their drinks slowly dwindling, until Bazine takes her last sip and drops two twenty dollar bills on the bar.

“So, would you like to come back to my place?”

Bazine is gorgeous, and Rey should want this. She should want to go home with a gorgeous person and fall into bed with them and not feel an ounce of hang up or regret.

And yet.

Her promise to herself vanishes into dust.

“I’m sorry, I just—” and she barely keeps her eyes from flickering to Ben, where he nurses a glass of whiskey on the other side of the bar. “No, thank you.”

Bazine takes it gracefully, dropping a kiss to her cheek and exiting the bar with her head high.

Rey finally allows herself to get a good look at Ben, and what she sees gives her pause.

He looks miserable, sunken eyes and a tortured pinch to his brow as he throws back his drink, motioning for a refill.

She walks over. Denying herself is an impossibility.

“Ben,” she whispers, sliding into the stool next to him.

“Rey.”

She loves how her name sounds in his mouth, like it coats his tongue with bitter sweetness.

“What are you doing here?” 

“I’m celebrating,” and the lack of amusement is evident in his tone, purely resentful, shocking in nature. “I’ve been offered a promotion at work.”

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. Seems there is simply no escaping the elephant they’ve concocted.

“How lovely for you,” she bites. “More chances to dirty your hands with the blood of the innocent.”

And then he does something she didn’t expect.

He _laughs._

It’s a full belly thing, deep and throaty and a _lot_ sad, like laughing is the only thing keeping him from bursting into tears. More than one patron looks in their direction, and she smiles at them with a pinched grimace, placing a soothing hand on Ben’s shoulder in an effort to cease his boisterousness.

He switches to wheezing, choked off gasps between words.

“Isn’t that just it?” he manages. “I’ll get to work for the real _winners_ now. No more small potatoes for Ben Solo, Esquire.” He says the title with so much ire she could flinch, and he takes another gulp of his drink. 

“I’ll get to defend the truest scum of the Earth now! Snoke wants to give me some of his _best_ clients. The ones that make the news, you know?”

She does know. They’re the ones that stuck in her mind before she ever met Ben, the ones that had her putting her foot in her mouth when they were introduced. The ones that make you scream at your TV or your phone, that make you want to punch a wall for all they get away with, all the hurt they cause, and the smiles on their faces when they walk out of the courtroom, free.

“He wants to give me his favorite billionaire money laundering rapists and thieves.”

She recoils at that, never hearing him so impassioned, unrestrained, self-loathing so evident she’s shocked she didn’t put the pieces together before.

“And,” he continues like he hasn’t noticed, laugh turned choked up sob crawling from his throat, “I’ll get to work more hours. Because when is fourteen hours a day ever enough? Especially without a life to get home to at night.” The last sentence is whispered to his glass, reflective, almost to himself, and he lifts it in a mock toast.

“To Snoke!” His voice cracks as he says it, and Rey snatches the glass from his hands, downing the remnants before she can think about the implication.

Hands empty, he rests his elbows on the table, runs both hands through his immaculate, silky waves, and hangs his head.

“I’ve never known anything else,” he whispers.

When did her eyes get blurry? It’s impossible to say. She only knows that her throat lends a wet sound to her tone when she whispers, “Ben?”

He looks up, and his eyes shine too.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to subtly wipe away the trails of wetness on his cheeks, “what happened with your date?”

She’s startled by the change in subject, and it’s a moment before she regains her bearings.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why didn’t you leave with her?”

She sighs at being asked to explain the impossible.

“It just...wasn’t right,” she whispers, not meeting his eyes.

“Poe told me the group’s been trying to set you up for a while now.”

She hoped he was going to drop it, but he seems intent on seeing his line of questioning through, and she feels her walls crumbling.

“Is there no one good enough for you? What’s wrong with all of them?” The words might seem unkind on their own, but his tone is so nearly self-deprecating that she knows he doesn’t mean them unkindly. At least, not to her. 

Her resolve crumbles into dust, and she says it before she allows her filter to to catch up with her.

“They’re not you.”

This time, he is the one to suck in a breath of surprise. She feels the strangest combination of giddiness and dread, to have named the nameless thing between them. But now it’s out in the open, uncontrollable in its acknowledged state.

“Rey?”

Her name again, this time with a lift at the end, a question she doesn’t know how to answer. 

And then he continues.

“I’m thinking about quitting.”

The words lance through her like a hot knife through butter. He shudders as he says it, like he’s voiced the one thing he was never meant to consider, never meant to say out loud, and she finally, maybe understands him just enough.

_He doesn’t have anyone else._

Everything has been said, except for the last thing.

“Ben.”

She says his name before she looks at him, because it’s the only way to push past the nerves. His gaze is already primed to lock with hers, eyes open and sad and eager and maybe just a tiny bit hopeful.

“Take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts in the comments! I’m on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/beccastanz).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eat me out until I cry and fuck me through the tears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the smut.
> 
> Please reread the tags!!!

He gasps, a little thing, a tick in his jaw and a flash of hope in his eyes pushing past the haze of despair.

“Rey.”

She relishes how it sounds, again, the first time he’s said it with hope not misplaced.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, not trusting her voice when the tension is so thick in the air. She’s said enough, she thinks. She knows what she wants, now. 

Inevitable. 

Maybe he won’t quit. Maybe he will fall further and further into abject despair and leave all morals behind, but tonight, she can pretend. Tonight, she can forget herself. It’s enough.

He pulls out his phone and she watches him type in an address that isn’t hers.

“Ben—”

“I need you in my bed, Rey. Please.” She sees the desperation in his eyes that she thought she glimpsed at the club all those weeks ago. She talked herself out of believing it then, but it’s undeniable now, glazing his eyes in a quiet fury of want. She couldn’t possibly deny him.

The car arrives almost instantly and she feels hazy—it’s not the alcohol, a drink and a half on a full stomach nowhere near enough to inebriate her, but something makes her feel like she’s pushing through fog, like the stretch of time between the ask and being alone is just a mirage, because nothing could possibly exist until she can get his hands on her. Yes, she crawls into the backseat. Yes, she watches the streets pass by outside the car window. But it’s not until they reach his building and he opens the door and grabs her hand to pull her close to his side that she realizes what she’s in for.

His building is gorgeous, because of course it is.

When they step into the elevator and he scans a key fob and presses the ‘P’ she is even less surprised.

But then his mouth is on her, and there is no room left for surprise.

This kiss is somehow even more unhinged than the one they shared in front of all their friends. He crowds her against the wall and she lets him crush her body between it and him, pressed together from root to tip as he explores the planes of her mouth with a single minded determination to memorize it. She faintly registers her moans and whimpers and is silently grateful for the solitude to experience her own shame.

It’s a wonder she held out this long.

Her hands roam the planes of his chest and back with reckless abandon and he tastes like whiskey and regret and she drinks it down.

She imagines she tastes much the same.

The ding of the elevator startles them apart, and she looks up and up and _up_ like she had the first time, except this time she will be in a bed with him.

She faintly registers that she’s already soaked.

His hair is mussed (and did she do that? She can’t remember) and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are even plumper and wetter than they had been when he kissed Finn. She allows herself a moment of pride.

He takes her hand.

He pulls her into his apartment and she can’t even get a good look at what she is sure is a vast expanse full of expensive furniture in shades of gray because his mouth is back on hers and he’s moving her backwards down a hallway with a guiding hand on her lower back. Her feet move behind her and he keeps her steady with his lips against her mouth and then something in him _shifts._

He spins her effortlessly to press her back against his chest, and his hands find her wrists to place her palms against the wall.

For a moment, only their panting breaths fill the hallway. She wonders if he thinks he’s gone too far. She wonders how to tell him it’s not far enough.

Then his teeth latch onto the exposed skin at the base of her neck, and he trails a single finger up and down each of her arms, still keeping her pressed against the wall, and her knees buckle with the force of her desire.

He catches her with an arm across her waist. He makes it all the way around, and she is enveloped and held and wanted. She wants to be consumed and he is hulking and all encompassing and she wants to live in this moment.

The faint tease of his fingers against her arm juxtaposes the heat of his mouth against her neck, and then he trails across her shoulders, leaving kisses and bites and she trembles and rests her forehead against the wall because it’s so overwhelming she can barely piece together a thought.

The arm around her waist is loosened and he starts to draw patterns on her stomach through her dress, his fingers marking lines of searing heat just above her belly button, then higher, higher, but not quite high enough, and his lips get lower, tracing her spine until he reaches the zipper and works his way back up again.

She’s never felt so debauched, and not a single stitch of clothing has left their bodies.

“Rey.” He whispers it into the skin of her back, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through her, another shudder, another gush from her aching cunt.

“Ben, please.” 

“Please what?” The warmth of his breath caresses her, simultaneously soothing and invigorating.

She finally grabs one of his hands to place it at her breast, squeezes it in a mimic of what she wants to feel, and cants her hips backwards with a hope that it’s enough.

It’s not enough.

“Use your words, Rey. I need to hear it.”

She nearly sobs, just nearly, at the thought of being forced to verbalize any more than she already has.

So she tries one last time, to chase his hands and his mouth and his cock without a word. She’s rewarded with him pulling down the front of her strapless dress just enough to expose her nipples to the cool air, breasts still half trapped as he pinches one peak between his fingers and she _keens_ for the sensation, for him, for his hands on her body that shouldn’t be there.

“What do you want, Rey?”

He’s asked before, but this time is so, so different.

“I...I want—”

He moves to the other breast, pinching, rolling, riling.

_God,_ she wants. She _needs._

She doesn’t have to look at him. It’s easier that way.

The truth is, she knows exactly what she wants. She wants him to break her. She wants to come undone, fueled by hate and heat and heartache. She dreams of his lips every single night, can’t remember a time she hasn’t come without thinking of his mouth descending upon every inch of her body. He’s barely covered more than a few inches and already she’s on fire, craving him everywhere else.

She craves release, too, in more ways than one. If she loses control under him, it will be easier to justify later, draped in the inevitable swaths of self-loathing for giving in.

She tells herself it’s just for a night, that their shared desperation will never leave this room, that wish fulfillment is worth the sharp sting of regret the moment the request leaves her lips.

“Eat me out until I cry and fuck me through the tears.”

He freezes behind her, and she’s afraid. She took it too far, made it too real, asked for something so unforgivable—

“ _Christ,_ Rey.”

And she hears his knees hit the floor behind her, feels his hands at the hem of her dress, pushing it over her ass as she moves to brace her forearms against the wall.

He spreads her thighs with a gentle nudge, and pulls her thong to the side. 

It seems some of her fantasies have proven true.

She feels strings of her own wetness pull between her swollen cunt and the soaked fabric and feels the huff of his breath against her folds. 

She can barely hold herself up and he hasn’t even touched her.

“Rey, you’re dripping all over yourself. Poor thing.”

He says it like his greatest wish in the world is to make it all better. Perhaps it won’t be hard to make her cry after all.

“Ben, please—”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he croons, just before placing his hands on her cheeks and spreading them. He licks a wide stripe from clit to hole, his entire tongue pressed against her, folds neatly parting to grant him deeper access.

_“Fuck!”_ She slams her fist against the wall.

It’s better than her dreams could have ever supplied.

There’s no preamble, no tentative strokes, no hesitation. He licks hot, heavy stripes over every inch of her cunt as she trembles above him, making noises she thought herself incapable of. He eats her out like he’s angry at her cunt for being so tempting. 

She’s on a hairpin trigger, close to coming before he’d even started his eager ministrations. He brings the point of his tongue to her clit as her thighs start to shake, pressing in firm strokes until she’s sure her legs won’t hold for another moment. She doesn’t think she can come like this, feels as if the waves of pleasure will cause her to collapse in a heap on his floor.

His attentiveness from across living rooms and clubs and bars and dinner tables extends to this, because he climbs back up her body, replacing his tongue with two expert fingers, reaching from behind to rub tight, quick circles as his other arm comes to hold her at the waist.

His mouth is back at her ear, and she can smell herself on his lips as he whispers.

“I said I’ve got you, Rey. You’re still holding on. _Let go.”_

And she does. She leans her head back against his chest and lets him bear the weight of her body as she orgasms, cunt clenched around nothing, thighs covered in her own arousal, eyes closed as he keeps rubbing, coaxing every second out of her climax that he possibly can. Only when her legs go limp does he stop the motion of his fingers.

“You’re so beautiful, Rey.”

The compliment feels different now. He’s not saying it when he knows he’ll never have her, not teasing her with the promise of a venom-soaked rebuke.

“So good.”

So different. And she can’t pretend she doesn’t like it, because her body speaks for her. She melts further into his arms. She gets wetter. She wants more.

He must be able to feel it, because he spins her back around for another searing kiss. Her dress is bunched under her tits and pulled over her ass and her thong is askew and none of it matters when the heat of his tongue is back inside of her, inside any hole, enticing.

When he grips the naked flesh of her ass, she knows to wrap her legs around him. Their bodies seem to know what their minds cannot fathom, and he hoists her up around his torso to walk them to his bedroom, all the while kissing her so thoroughly that she nearly forgets what she’s asked for.

He’s so strong, prowess on display as he keeps her suspended in the air against him with one arm as he throws back the bedspread with the other, lips traveling back down to suck at the hollow of her throat.

It’s too late to ask him not to leave a mark, and as much as she doesn’t want to remember this, she also absolutely, desperately does. She wants to be littered in reminders of him, the way his teeth and tongue and lips pressed into her with the unrestrained bite of torment.

When he lays her down on the softest sheets she’s ever felt, it’s with a softness and grace that startles her. He cradles her body like it’s precious, like he’s afraid to break her when all she wants is an excuse to break. She wants him to make her cry because it’s been building since they met, tears over him that she’s refused to shed until she was given a better excuse. His mouth is the best excuse she can think of.

And then that mouth is pressing kisses to her ankle as he travels down to remove her shoes. She never thought her ankles were sensitive until it was his lips pressed against them. 

He starts to trail up her legs, small kisses, bites, sucking the flesh where there is give to leave marks in his wake. It’s agonizingly slow and she just wants his mouth back on where she drips for him. She shoves her hips down in a feeble attempt to get what she wants, and when she looks down to meet his eyes she wishes she hadn’t.

He’s looking at her like she’s hung the moon. It’s dangerous.

“Ben, just—”

“Rey,” he groans into the muscle of her thigh. “Please. Let me savor this.”

She’s watched him toss back liquor that costs more than her rent, but apparently she is worthy of savoring, so she throws her head back, away from his eyes. She doesn’t have to confront what that means.

She’s come once, sure, but it’s barely done a thing to quell the fire in her belly, and his slow touches are doing nothing to ease the burden. When he finally gets mere inches from her cunt, he flips her over in a cruel move, gratification delayed as he reaches for the zipper of her dress.

He kisses a line of fire down her back as he pulls it down, and she twitches with each press of lips, until he finally, _finally_ rips it from her body, thong along with it, and she is flipped onto her back and bared to his gaze, naked in the bed of the one person she swore she’d go without.

Guilt ferments in her belly, makes her drunk with need. Her own selfishness cannot be ignored, and yet he so readily agreed to her demands. It seems the worst he could think to do is drag it out.

He kisses her again, efficiently stripping himself of his jacket and shirt and tie as he does so, and she tries to help but all she really does is trace the pads of her fingers over the newly bared flesh, pressing and gripping and kneading whatever she can grip as his tongue maps her mouth again. 

She needs him back between her legs.

Then he’s shirtless, and somehow also lost his trousers and it’s a testament to how distracting his mouth is that she failed to notice him stripped to nothing more than a tight pair of boxer briefs. He’s tenting them obscenely, she can tell from her flattened position on the bed, but then she can no longer see because his hand is cradling her head, then traveling lower, the lightest brush against the side of her throat, so careful.

She doesn’t want careful.

She covers his hand with hers, just as she had in the hallway to coax him to her breast. And again, she squeezes.

She hears his sharp intake of breath, and forces herself to look into his eyes.

“Rey?”

Her gaze never wavers. He presses, tentatively, into the sides of her neck, breath unrestricted but blood flow slowing.

“I’m not crying yet, Ben.”

This time, he is the one to shudder, and then he lets go of her in favor of moving back between her legs, forcing her thighs over his shoulders as he resumes his debauchery.

It’s easier to relax into it like this, comforting firmness of a mattress at her back. He trails his tongue over her labia, catching the wetness that’s collected, spreading it to the creases of her thighs as he licks there too, intent on laving every inch of flesh he can reach. She thinks she’s being loud, but nothing matters here, on the top floor of somewhere, utterly isolated.

He eats her out like he _wants_ to do it, like there’s nothing that could top the taste of her, and that is somehow the most arousing thing of all.

His teasing isn’t on purpose; he seems content to simply taste her for as long as it takes to quench his thirst. But she is not here to feel treasured, so she grips his hair and grinds her hips in a plea.

When he groans, the vibrations force out a similar noise from her throat, and then all of his attention is on her clit as he presses a single finger into her entrance, bending it toward her front wall and thrusting in time with his tongue. This climax hits her deeply, permeates her entire body with the force of it, with the buildup of endless minutes of teasing, the feeling of something to clench down on inside of her as she writhes and mewls and stains his sheets. His mouth is latched to her all the way through it, endless waves of pleasure she thought impossible coursing through her until she is forced to pull his head away with a weakened arm.

She’s on the verge of tears, and she didn’t think it would happen so soon.

“Fucking perfect, sweetheart. You come like a dream.”

If she wasn’t on the verge before, she is now.

“Ben,” and she’s panting, words almost impossible to push out past the fatigue in her chest. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can,” and he pauses to press a kiss to her trembling inner thigh. “And I will.”

She looks back down, and his eyes and mouth shine. Something cracks through the bravado of his words, and he continues, like this is a normal conversation, like he’s not coated in the wetness of the woman who refused him time and time again.

“If you really want me to stop, I will. I promise. Just tell me to stop.”

The silence is heated. Thick.

“Rey.” She thinks there’s a tremor in his voice now. “Tell me to stop.”

She doesn’t.

So he doesn’t.

This time, when he returns to her cunt, he presses in with two fingers alongside his wicked mouth, the mouth with which she’s shared infinite barbs and insults and now, an endless amount of intimacy, and it’s all so much to bear and that’s when the first tear escapes.

Except it can’t be from this, from the swirl of emotions threatening to consume her as her orgasm builds. So she reaches for his free hand and places it back against her throat, and he presses at the sides enough to make her head spin, all the while licking up every bit of the wetness that his crooked fingers make spill.

And then there are three, stretching, and she feels light and almost free, and his tongue presses to her clit and she comes with a shout and with salty wetness dripping down her cheeks, enough to dampen the hand that loosens just in time for the flood of oxygen-filled blood to heighten the strength of her peak. She comes forever, forever under him, forever consumed by the weight of his hands and her staunch refusal of anything good but this.

He presses soft, wet kisses to her stomach as he trails upward, uses his thumb to brush away the free-flowing tears.

“Rey—”

“Fuck me, Ben.” It’s all she can manage, throat thick with unshed tears and unsaid words. She can’t let all of them escape. Just a few, just enough.

He shoves down his underwear and it’s then that she realizes he is going to ruin her for anyone else.

She probably should’ve realized it sooner.

He reaches for his nightstand and returns with a gold wrapper, and she turns over, hands and knees and looking away from the truth.

When she feels him grip her hip, it’s accompanied by a sigh that almost sounds pained. Yearning.

But he lines up with her entrance and pushes in anyway, and it feels like her cunt was just waiting for his cock.

He inches in slowly, letting her exist in this universe of being filled so completely perfectly that she could cry if she wasn’t already. He mutters behind her, new endearments with every bit of him she takes.

“So good, Rey. Like you were made for this. _Fuck,_ you’re taking me so well, good girl, m—sweetheart.”

She tries not to think about choked off words and empty promises, because she is not empty now. 

“I said _fuck me,_ Ben.”

So he does, deep thrusts that make her question her sanity, make her question what life will be like after knowing how this feels. Every time he bottoms out, another tear hits the sheets, damp darkness she can’t look away from. Her wetness is twofold.

His hands on her hips allow him leverage, but he gives it up to wrap his hand back around her throat as he fucks her, alternating between heavy pressure and tender sweeps of his thumb across the soft, vulnerable skin.

Then his other hand reaches her clit, and she wonders if she can really come again.

“Need to feel you, Rey. Are you close?”

_Oh._ She is.

She nods, and she knows he can feel it against the grip of his hand as her chin bumps the back of it.

“That’s good, Rey. Come on my cock. Please.”

It’s the _please_ that does it, forcing her over the edge for the fourth time that night, clenching even though there’s hardly any room left inside of her to do so. Her knees give out, and she collapses, and he stays inside of her as they both go horizontal, his circling fingers never ceasing, even crushed between her body and the bed, his thrusts keeping up through her waves of pleasure.

When she comes down, she feels it; he is still hard inside of her. He truly means to savor this.

“Rey?”

She pants into the sheets, just barely tilts her head so he knows she can hear him.

“I need to see you.”

Every instinct inside of her screams _no,_ but the part of her that needs to look into his eyes wins out.

This night will ruin her, so it might as well be a thorough ruining.

She slides off of his cock so she can turn back over, legs spread, welcoming her own demise.

He looks thrilled, and aroused, and just a little sad, and she drinks it in because she knows she must look the same. The stream of tears has slowed, but the cause of their propulsion never ceases.

He slides back in, pace resuming immediately. This time, when his hand reaches her neck, it’s a cradle at the back, forcing her up so their foreheads touch. It’s startlingly intimate, so much more than she ever thought she could bear. The only thing harder to bear would be to push him away.

“You’re going to come again, Rey.”

He says it like it’s inevitable, like she was always meant to fall apart five times in one night at the hands and mouth and cock of the man she hates.

She really does hate him, because she knows he’s right, even as she chokes out a feeble, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can, Rey. I know you can.”

It’s his confidence in her that brings her to the edge, right back on the precipice of doom.

“I’m so close, Rey, you’re so fucking perfect, please—”

And his hand reaches her clit again, and their eyes lock, and they fall into doom together. Their panting breaths coalesce in the small space between their lips, and then they are crushed together, mouths sealed, every part of them connected as they ride out their shared high. It’s like nothing she’s ever felt in her life, anguish and release and complete, utter ruin. 

They chant each other’s names through it all, and she will never be able to look at him the same way again.

She doesn’t think she will look at herself the same way, either.

They stay there for a brief moment, or maybe for an hour, and then he pulls out of her and rolls away to dispose of the condom.

When he turns back, they look at each other again. It’s too much for her to handle, and she breaks away to stare at the ceiling.

“The bathroom is just through there.”

She sees him point out of the corner of her eye, and then she rolls away, exiting the bed in pursuit of a moment of solace.

Of course it’s gorgeous, all marble and shine and a separate tub. As she sits, she tries not to imagine a night spent curled against his chest in that very tub.

Then, she tries to avoid her own gaze as she washes her hands, afraid of the sight that may greet her.

Except she forgot that she is weak. So she looks.

Marks litter her skin, as expected, souvenirs from her breaking point. 

She traces them with a finger, feels renewed arousal before stopping herself.

She re-enters the room to Ben, slightly cleaned up, no doubt multiple bathrooms in the vastness of his life.

He reclines against the headboard, sheet draped over his lap, opposite corner folded down in invitation.

She freezes.

“Ben.”

She eyes the turned down corner like it could possibly hurt her more than he ever has.

“Rey, please. Stay. No one will know but us.” 

And that’s two people too many, but she’s tired. So she stays.

She climbs under his covers and lets him hold her and tries not to realize how easy it is to fall asleep in his arms.

————

Morning arrives languidly, with a hand at her waist and soft caresses of lips at her back.

She thinks he might be kissing every mark from the night before, and she lets him. She lets the haze of the morning light coax her into allowing this, the deepest form of intimacy as he spreads her with his fingers and rocks himself against her, as he makes her come for the sixth time before rolling on a condom and fucking her again, as he whispers gentle words she doesn’t deserve and somehow finds seven.

And then she finds her clothes, and this time he doesn’t stop her.

“I could be good for you, Rey.”

“But you haven’t been.”

“I will be.”

“We’ll see.”

In her experience, people don’t change, at least not for the better. Her life has not made her an optimist, but the desperate sincerity in his eyes just before she turns away makes her want to hope.

Hope is dangerous, more dangerous than his head between her legs, than the way he looked at her when she came on his cock. 

With every fiber of her being, she begs to be proven wrong.

“Goodbye, Ben.”

“I’ll see you again soon, Rey. I promise.”

He says it like he knows the only circumstance under which she will allow herself to see him again, with such conviction she feels tears threaten to spill.

She walks out the door, his words held close to her chest, the memory of his very being permeating her consciousness with an inescapable permanence. 

And she waits.

She knows all about waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments appreciated! I promise to always respond <3
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/beccastanz).


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